


Variations on a Theme (Plane Crash in C)

by asemic



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten drabbles, ten situations, ten reflections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations on a Theme (Plane Crash in C)

**_in one breath_ **

…fingers are twining through those soft curls crushing them pulling them tighter as the hands on his hips keep him from thrusting into that warm mouth wet and so talented and god where the hell did Charlie learn to do that with his tongue but his mind can’t catch up with his cock and fuck he’s coming into that red mouth all shiny with spit and his spunk and now Charlie’s kissing him and he can taste himself and his brother and then Charlie’s gripping his shoulders forcing him to his knees and he licks his lips dives right in…

**_make room for_ **

Don’s fever has spiked to 100, worrying Charlie. He gazes at the boxer-clad form of his brother, damp with sweat. Dipping his fingers into a bowl of water, he runs them over Don’s skin, wet trails forming curves dripping down his sides. He works too hard, wears himself down. Don coughs and buries his face into his pillow. Charlie bathes his neck with a damp cloth, kisses him on the shoulder. Don peeks at him, and shuffles over on the bed. Charlie wraps his arms around the hot body, making a note to call in sick until Don’s feeling better.

**_just play with_ **

The music pounds in his head as the lights strobe around him. There’s a hand gripping his shoulder, a mouth whispering against his ear. He nods and walks to the bathroom, sliding through the crowd. Entering the last stall he locks the door, his breathing ragged and catching in his chest. Five agonizing minutes later there’s a knock. The eyes that meet his are ringed with eyeliner, the voice low, dangerous. He’s pressed face first against the stall, pants yanked down. 

“You’re my slut…my toy, Donny.”

He gets fucked hard; with each thrust he knows he’s his brother’s favorite game. 

**_spilt it all_ **

The felt tip pen tickles his back and he shifts until he’s smacked on the head. Charlie scolds him, continues to write his numbers. Don sets his jaw then lifts his ass enough to throw his brother off balance, then flips over. Charlie’s trapped under his weight and he places a kiss against his throat. Taking the pen, he writes his name over a rosy nipple, then sucks on it, tasting soap and ink. Charlie moans, whispers his name until Don’s mouth swallows his words. The pen drops from Don’s hand onto the bed, the ink soaking into the sheets. 

**_wanna be like_ **

Charlie’s wrists are red from all his yanking, all that squirming. Don’s worried the metal is going to bite, make him bleed. He’s over him, smiling as he unbuttons Charlie’s shirt, taking his time. A whisper begging him to hurry up escapes those bitten lips and the smile leaves his face. He moves off of his brother and starts his little game all over again. Charlie never has any patience. He always has to get what he wants, when he wants. Life doesn’t work like that, and he’s got all the time in the world to teach him this fact. 

**_through all of_ **

The smell of kiwi envelops Charlie as the shampoo is massaged into his scalp. Don’s fingers are strong and the circular motions relax him. A small contented sigh escapes his lips, and he drops his head against the edge of the tub. He looks up, Don filling his vision. Sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, suds sticking to the hair that covers his arms. 

“Close your eyes,” and he does so. Warm water pours down on him, rinsing away the shampoo. The water can’t dissolve the images of dead children from his mind, but maybe Don’s gentle touch can. 

**_feel it out_ **

Blue silk is pulled from around Charlie’s neck then run over his cheeks and lips. The tip of the tie is dipped into his open mouth, darkening the fabric. Don shivers as he watches that red mouth part again, a wet pointed tongue flicks at the material. His brother nips at it with those teeth of his and Don nearly comes at the sight. He pulls it out from between his lips and winds the tie around his hand. He slides the cloth-covered hand between them. They gasp when silk touches flesh, come together hard, ruining Charlie’s best tie. 

**_is how to_ **

The numbers and equations formed under Charlie’s hand are beautiful. Images from his head flow onto the chalkboard, ribbons of white on black. Don’s mesmerized by the patterns, confusing as they are. But to Charlie they hold the secrets of his mind, cracks the world open. He’s is an artist, studying his subject with a critical eye, reinterpreting it onto his board. Intangible becomes visual, real. So when Charlie places a stick of chalk between his fingers and wraps his hand around Don’s, his heart stops. As the numbers form, he understands how his brother feels for one fleeting moment. 

**_would like this_ **

“You want to lie down, legs spread open. You want me there, stroking your thighs, scratching my nails along your side. Tell me, you want me there licking your cock slowly, sucking on the head. Right now all I can do is taste you, bitter and sweet on my tongue. I can see you there, fucking hard, fucking ready for my mouth, waiting for me to swallow you whole. Grabbing my hair and screaming my name. You just want me, my lips, my mouth. Don’t you, buddy?”

The voice message ends too quickly. Charlie hits repeat, listens all over again. 

**_on to me_ **

Don tells him how much he loves him, how he’s his world. Charlie licks a path along Don’s neck, clings to his side. He presses his mouth to Don’s ear, whispers how Don is his life, his soul, his reason to stay afloat when the numbers threaten to drown him. Don twines his fingers through Charlie’s and they stay like this, until morning breaks them apart. 

They can’t be defined by something as simple as words. Brothers and lovers are just terms, unable to describe what Don feels for Charlie, Charlie for Don. They just _are_ , nothing more, nothing less.


End file.
